Mask
by the queen of slurking
Summary: Every day she listens to the radio in silence. Every day she pulls her robes around her, and every day she schools her face into calm. Every day she sees her colleagues do the same, because there's really nothing more they can do.


**Mask**

Every day is the same now.

Ever since the night on the Astronomy Tower, when the Dark Mark hung over the sky, things have changed. Minerva hadn't expected to remain headmistress once Dumbledore, possibly the strongest protector of the wizarding world, had died. True, she'd stepped up to the role to organize the funeral and be a figurehead until the term had ended and the students had left.

Alone, she stayed in the office and shuffled through papers, pretending to try to do work. She welcomed the disruption when Pomona and Filius came in, set out three glasses and a large bottle of Firewhiskey.

They diligently avoided looking at Albus' portrait, the one that was now occupied.

Even so, he watched them as they toasted and drank.

With no inclination to stay at Hogwarts, she packed her things together and went to visit her brother. The remaining members of her family had gathered at the family home, waiting to meet and comfort her. They'd known how close she was to Albus, and they greeted her with tea and uncharacteristic closeness.

A few days later she returned to Hogwarts, deciding that the school needed to be run, Dark Lord or no.

The letters had accumulated in her absence and she winced at the content: several parents were withdrawing their children. Others were from the oldest students who could decide for themselves that they weren't coming back.

The last letter had her cursing quietly in shock: Hermione and her friends wouldn't be returning. Her heart broke as she realized why: Hermione was Muggle-born and would be targeted purely for that. Ron came from a family that did not actively loathe Muggles, and Harry was the top target on _his_ list.

She just hoped they knew how to hide.

The weeks passed, and she didn't try to keep her emotions hidden at staff meetings. There was no point now: Hagrid frequently looked on the verge of tears, and a bottle of Firewhiskey became a frequent presence.

The term started, and Minerva wondered where her students had gone to. She was surprised that she'd still remained in the position of headmistress; surely_ he_ would have appointed one of his minions to take over the position.

A little while later, she was only slightly taken aback when Snape arrived in her office and began explaining the details of his new role. Understanding that she had no choice, she gathered her few belongings and returned to her old office. Maybe she'd wanted to be headmistress for a while, but right now, it didn't matter. Maybe one day, if she survived the war, she could take up the role then.

November segued into December and nothing had changed. By this point, she was wondering if they were even going to celebrate Christmas. More students were going home for the holiday, and she wondered how many would return. At the rate things were going, the halls and classes would thin out even more. Snape was barely around; too busy scheming new ways for the students to learn the Dark Arts, no doubt. The teachers were doing their best to protect the students: Filius had, the other day, taken the blame for a Stunning Hex that one of the students had aimed at Carrow. The situation was even direr than it had been the first time _he_ had been gaining power.

At the beginning of the year, the rest of the staff had come to a decision: they would protect the students as thoroughly as they could. Since then, they'd all taken various curses and hexes as punishment for disrespecting their superiors.

Minerva choked out something that was a cross between a laugh and a sob. Her _superiors_, as if being a monster were something to be proud of. Then again, considering whom they supported and the ideals they followed, they were more than proud of it.

The days passed and she reminded herself to get someone to keep an eye on Miss Lovegood when she went home for Christmas. The girl's father had been quite outspoken about supporting Harry and Dumbledore, bless his soul – unfortunately, it made him a target, and by extension, his daughter.

Christmas day arrived in all its snowy, cold glory. The cold was amplified by the constant presence of the Dementors, and Minerva charmed her robes to remain warm for as long as she was outside of her quarters. She'd already distributed her gifts to the necessary people and received several in return, though this year they were mainly chocolate and books. This year, she hadn't really had the heart to come up with personalized gifts, and she suspected others didn't either.

Snape made a brief appearance at lunch, and the atmosphere quickly became tense. The few brave students present focused on their food and fell silent; the staff did the same. Minerva forced down the last of her turkey, suddenly losing her appetite that Dumbledore's murderer should be there to for Christmas lunch.

After the holidays, Miss Lovegood didn't return. Minerva realized that no doubt the Hogwarts Express would've been met with Death Eaters who were ready to neutralize any threats to their lord. It seemed to have more of an impact upon her that Luna had gone missing: Harry and his friends had left of their own will, but Luna was a girl who had helped her own friends try to break into the headmaster's office and steal from him.

The next morning, she rose early and tuned her radio to Potterwatch. Minutes later she was listening to a broadcast listing the witches and wizards who'd gone missing, either of their own accord or by Death Eater means. The list was long, and she found herself smashing the teacup that sat on her desk.

These were students of hers, relatives of students she'd taught, and Merlin only knew where they were. Not for the first time, she felt completely out of her depth, and she hated it.

That morning began the start of a ritual. It didn't matter that some of her favourite students had broken laws or infiltrated the Ministry – though hearing about how they'd attacked Umbridge had brought a smile to her face – she was still powerless to help.

Every morning, she rose in silence and put on the radio, listening as they reeled off names and praying that the list didn't get longer. The elves began to occasionally lace her tea with a few drops of calming draught. Every morning, she pulled her robes tightly around herself as if to shield herself from the outside world, and every morning, she schooled her face into the same mask of a stern teacher.

She knows it's pointless masking her feelings and emotions: everyone else around her feels the same icy atmosphere. Everyone knows the axe will fall eventually, and there'll be a battle. Still, she feels better controlling her expression, because right now she has precious little control over the world around her and emotions are about the one thing she can control.

Every day she taught and took the occasional bullet to protect her students as much as she could. Every morning, she watched as her colleagues did the same, because there was really nothing more she could do.


End file.
